What Doesn't Kill You Still Breaks You Down
by midnightluck
Summary: Gotham is a harsh mistress, and one night in a dark alley, Commissioner Gordon learns a lesson about family and pain, about secrets and keeping them, and about what it means to live.


**What Doesn't Kill You (Still Breaks You Down)  
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><p><em><em>All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners (Cartoon Network). For a prompt on YJ_Anon_Meme.<em>_

**WARNING:** ambiguous character death? References to possible suicide. Also, swear words.__  
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><p>Commissioner James Gordon has just enough time to realize he's going to die before the trigger clicks.<p>

His last thought is, _Barbara. I'm so sorry._

But it isn't his last thought, because yellow fills his vision, that bright shade of yellow that can only be one person.

But the gun had roared, and Gordon isn't bleeding, and Robin doesn't land the fall. He just kind of flops onto the ground, with less than his usual grace.

"Sorry," the Boy Wonder gasps. "I tripped."

Jim has seen the boy balance on one hand on a narrow rail. He has seen the boy fly. He has seen the boy use Gotham as his own personal jungle gym, and he does not believe, not for one second, that Robin tripped.

But it's bought him enough time to reach the perp he was after, and to bring him down, hard. And if the guy's skull bounces on the pavement a few times, well. Not his fault, surely.

He's got his cell phone out, calling for an ambulance even before he finishes cuffing the criminal. He rattles off location and says, _gunshot victim_, but his brain still isn't processing this information.

The criminal is out cold and cuffed, so Gordon turns and falls to his knees beside Robin, who's got a hand over his stomach. Jim covers it with his own, keeping pressure on the wound. "I'm all right," Robin says, but he doesn't move.

"Liar," Gordon accuses gently.

Robin tries to smile, but grimaces instead. He looks down at the blood, oh god, there's blood, it's everywhere, so dark in the night, staining the red of the tunic and the yellow of the cape.

Robin wears red, but the color of blood is all wrong for him.

"Okay, not so fine. But listen. Listen. Robin can't die," he coughs.

"Shhh, you're not gonna die," Gordon says, putting more pressure on the wound. "Where's the damn ambulance?"

"No, listen to me," Robin says weakly, grabbing the lapel of the Commissioner's coat. "I may die, I may not. But _Robin_ cannot die. See?"

And he does, oh, he does. Because Robin is a mask, and you can't kill a legend. Because the Batman isn't human, so neither is his sidekick. Because if Robin dies, there's no way people wouldn't find out, and then identities would be at risk.

But the boy behind the mask could die. Horrible as it is, this is Gotham. Young boys die here every night. What's one more?

And Robin realizes all this, Gordon thinks. He knows the tricks. He knows that Robin cannot die, so he's willing to take the blow himself.

Fuck that, the commissioner thinks, stripping out of his overcoat and laying it over the boy. He rips off his tie, pushing it to the wound and using the boy's limp hand to keep it in place. No one's dying. Not tonight.

Robin manages, "Backpack. Cycle. Code...'Override JG'..." before passing out.

Right.

Gordon makes his way to the lip of the alley where Robin's red motorcycle is parked. "Override Jay Gee," he snaps at the bike.

_Voiceprint recognized. Welcome, Jim Gordon._

A hatch slides open, and sure enough, there's a backpack in it. He feels the sting in his eyes, even as he snags the thing.

They'd programmed his voice into their tech as a failsafe. Did Batman really trust him that much...?

He's back at the boy's side in seconds. Not thinking about how it's going to look, he efficiently strips Robin, replacing the outfit with everyday clothes. The pair of jeans are a little loose, but the shirt fits well, and there are even shoes.

He stuffs the Robin suit in the backpack, and hesitates before prying at the mask, then throwing that in the bag, too. He covers the boy with his coat again, and returns to the motorcycle. The hatch is still open, so he drops the bag back in, already planning how to hide the thing.

_Security System: Armed. Route: Preprogrammed. Please Stand Back_.

Gordon blinks, but doesn't spend too much time on it. Instead, he scoops the boy up in his arms and exits the alley, hearing the approach of sirens.

Still, it takes them too long to pull up, and Gordon walks towards them, careful of the body in his arms. The EMTs rush forward, and he lays the boy on the stretcher they provide, then steps back out of the way. He needs Robin to live, so he doesn't distract the people trying to save his life.

Someone shines a light in his eyes and barks questions at him. He shrugs them off angrily, telling them loudly that he is all right, he's fine, just look after the boy, okay? Oh, and there should be a criminal somewhere back that way.

A slim hand grabs his arm and offers support. "We got him," Montoya murmurs to him. "You okay, boss?"

"I'm fine," he lies, unable to take his eyes off the ambulance speeding away. "Hey, could you, y'know, just...?" He waves a hand to demonstrate what he means, but since he's not even sure what he's asking, it probably doesn't help.

"Yeah, sure, boss," she answers, leading him a few steps sideways. Her voice is steady and soothing, and he focuses on that, blinking away the dark, empty street and the afterimages of flashing lights. "My car's over here; I'll drive you to the hospital."

He manages to get in the car, and holds on as Montoya drives. She's careful and calm, and he wants to bark at her to hurry the hell up. He takes a deep breath instead, because she doesn't, can't know that the cheerful young man who's made her laugh and saved her a million times is bleeding out somewhere ahead of them.

She glances at him sideways as they pull up, and asks again, "You okay, Boss?"

He swallows, and says, "Yeah," and gets out of the car. "He's gonna be just fine."

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><p>Gordon paces the waiting room. The boy's been in surgery for an hour and a bit now, and still no word.<p>

Someone hesitantly clears their throat. "Mr. Wayne is here, sir," a nurse says quietly.

What the hell is Bruce Wayne doing coming to see Robin? And where the holy hell is Batman?

He whirls towards the doorway, but his head spins. He's been up for far too long, and shadows swarm his vision.

The silhouette in the doorway is Batman's. Well. That explains that.

His eyes clear, and Bruce is already three steps into the room. Gordon fights the urge to laugh hysterically. Of course Bruce Wayne is Batman, he thinks, and in retrospect, it's blindingly obvious. But Robin—wait, that'd be Richard Grayson, wouldn't it? Circus acrobat, thirteen years old, orphan.

Thirteen years old. Parents murdered. Orphan.

Oh, god, it hurts.

"He...he saved me," Gordon manages, voice breaking. And then he realizes that, even wounded, Robin's got him covered, because he gave Gordon a cover story to follow up on. "He—he stumbled into the alley. He tripped."

Tripped. Right into the path of the bullet.

Bile rises heavy in his throat, burning and wretched, just like him.

"I know," Bruce says, low and heavy and as worried as the parent he isn't. "He shouldn't have even been there."

It hurts, a stabbing at his heart, in his chest, a pain that won't let up, because dear god, a young boy, an orphan, _thirteen years old_, and he's willing to die to save an old, weathered cop.

It's a bad trade. He's not worth it, not even if he's the only honest cop in Gotham, not even if he's making a difference. His life isn't worth another's.

He'll resign in the morning.

Bruce is looking at him carefully. "He shouldn't have been there," he repeats. "But he was. And he made a choice. Don't you dare dishonor his sacrifice. Don't you _dare_."

But it isn't fair, not in a world where he lives while a young boy, _that _young boy, dies.

He scrubs a hand across his face, and, stupidly, all he can think to say is, "He tripped."

Bruce doesn't smile, but he nods. "Acrobats do not _trip_, Commissioner. And before all else, Dick will ever be a Flying Grayson."

A circus boy, Gordon remembers suddenly. A protection racket, and his father had done the right thing and been murdered for it. Duty and honor repaid with vengeance and blood. And the poor boy, left all alone, his father a fallen hero, and mother an innocent bystander.

An orphan drowned in the blood of a martyr.

How could Robin _smile_?

But if Robin—if Richard—could, if he could live that horror and laugh, if he could grow into a hero in his own right, if he could honor his parents' memory with his own life, then Gordon could hardly do less.

"A Flying Grayson, huh?" he asks, bitter heavy in his voice, but with just a drop of wonder.

And Bruce, Batman, knows him too well, so painfully well. "In name, in spirit, in blood."

Gordon swallows heavily. "In honor."

"In life," Bruce states, but it's a question.

So Gordon weighs the balance, takes a breath, and clutches his duty tightly. "In life," he repeats, and it still hurts, still tears at him, still sits behind his heart and his eyes, waiting, waiting for the chance. A chance he's not going to give it.

He repeats more firmly, "In life."

And the doors of the operating theater slip open, the creak sounding like thunder, or maybe that's just his pulse hammering in his ears. There's a doctor stripping off bloodied gloves, looking around for the next of kin.

Gordon steps up next to Bruce, and the doctor approaches them.

_In name. In spirit. In blood. In honor._

In life.


End file.
